The Case of the Reluctant Tenant
by Westron Wynde
Summary: In the immediate aftermath of Watson's marriage, Sherlock Holmes finds himself investigating a case that strikes a little too close to home. From Holmes' POV. COMPLETE!
1. Chapter One

**The singular Mr Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson et al are the creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This is a work of fan fiction, written by a fan for the enjoyment, I hope, of other fans. No harm is meant or intended by its creation.**

* * *

_**The Case of the Reluctant Tenant**_

**Chapter One**

Looking back over the course of my career, in particular those few cases which my friend and biographer has been good enough to recount for the interest of the general public, I find that I am mostly satisfied with the legacy I shall leave for future generations.

I emphasise mostly, for it is my honest contention that the good Doctor has added sensationalism where there was none, colour to the dullest of intrigues and saddled my persona with the most unattractive of features. Many times did I rail at him for such banality, and his answer was invariably the same, that he could only write of what he knew.

In this argument, I cannot fault his logic. If I take a more detached perspective on the thing, I see now how I have verged on the precipice of eccentricity, if not wholly toppled headlong into the pit. Without my powers of deduction and logic, I am sure that I would have been decried as a lunatic and shuffled away to an asylum long before now.

In my December years, I find myself looking back to these early accounts if only to assure myself that this singular individual, of whom I cannot totally disavow as an inaccurate representation of myself, was not merely a figment of an overactive imagination. If truly Watson has written of what he knew, then I can only wonder that he endured our friendship for so long.

I could have wished, perhaps, for less candour, but even in that I cannot blame him. The blank page acts as confessional and rips from the soul what to speak would be difficult. I find myself in that situation now, with the pen moving in my hand almost with a will of its own, laying bare my deepest secrets, my sorrows, my regrets.

Well may Watson write of his own experience, but there is also much he does not know, even now after a distance of many years, for times there were when he was not at my side to chronicle my endeavours, times when Holmes the living, breathing entity was as distant from his literary depiction as the Sun from the Earth.

Such a time was on a wintry afternoon in late 1888 when I stood alone in our rooms in Baker Street and felt overwhelmed by such a sense of loss that logic and emotion fought their giddy battle in my head and left me in a state of confusion.

Several hours before, I had sat in the rearmost pew of a draughty church and watched at a distance as vows were made and sealed with a ring. The few people there crowded the front pews, all smiles and happy faces beaming on the newlyweds.

For myself, I felt nothing, just a cold emptiness where I assumed there should have been joy. I had never agreed with this match, as if my opinion mattered, but had not deliberately interfered, hoping that common sense would prevail.

It never did.

In fact, as the date grew never and the bands were called for the last time, he had the temerity to ask me to stand as his best man. Of course I had declined, saying that such an unreliable fellow as myself was undeserving of the honour and bound to let him down. He had accepted this refusal with good grace and found an alternative in a former army comrade, although I have since learnt of the depth of his disappointment on that day.

Perhaps, however, I have always known, and the darker part of my soul whispers that that had been my intention all along, to wound as I was wounded. That same perverseness of spirit drove me out of Baker Street at an ineffably early hour on the morning of the wedding on the pretext of some minor business and held me at bay until the service had commenced when I was able to slip in quietly at the back to take my place unobserved.

Only when the ceremony ended and the procession down the nave began did he see me. I fancied I perceived some faint smile of pleasure on his part when he saw that I had made the supreme effort to attend his nuptials, although stickler for custom that he is, he made no other attempt to acknowledge my presence until all were safely from the church.

I sidled out after the few guests and had seriously considered returning to Baker Street. Had I not been caught and pressed to attend the wedding breakfast, I should surely have spared myself the agony. Social settings hold little attraction for me, lest so when they are populated by a host of people more curious about my affairs than I about theirs.

Even with the deed done, I still could not bring myself to offer my congratulations. Instead I was abrupt, terse almost, and should have departed sooner had not I been prevailed upon to wait for the cutting of the cake. That ordeal over, I took the offering and left.

My feet should have turned for home, except that I found I had no particular desire to return after all. I wandered the streets like a lost soul until a light rain began to fall and forced me to reconsider.

Mrs Hudson had made some attempt to inquire as to the ceremony as I relieved myself of my overcoat, but I was in no mood to bandy words with her. Instead, I hurried upstairs to that unhappy state which left me reeling from its effects.

It was not that I was alone. Often were the times when he had been absent before on my return. What made it so different this time was that I knew he would not be back. He would visit no doubt, as one visits a maiden aunt, but that intimacy – the quiet pipe before the fire, the comfortable silence that exists only between old friends, the shared thrill of the chase – was forever lost

If I had not appreciated it at the time, I found I missed it all the more keenly now. Had I had my way, this state could have endured forever. But this was not my way and not my choice – it was all Watson's doing.

I felt strangely betrayed.

It was not a welcome feeling and one that troubled me immensely, being unable to isolate its cause. In reality, it mattered not a jot to me whether Watson was present or not. The economic necessity that had brought us together no longer came into the equation where I was concerned and I could easily shoulder the rent without outside help. I did not actively seek companionship and often found that the course of my investigations went smoother went I worked alone.

And yet, despite all logical arguments to the contrary, I missed him. That cold, severe machine that Watson described in the pages of his stories had a heart after all.

This state of course was quite unacceptable. I had no case to break the annoyance of these thoughts, no petty problem to occupy my mind. My attention inevitably turned to the solace afforded by the contents of the locked drawer of my desk.

I could almost hear Watson's disapproval as I prepared the solution. Just recently he had been labouring under the misapprehension that he was in some way succeeding in weaning me from its influence. I had allowed him to believe this because the notion that he had some influence over me seemed to please him, as much as it pleased me to know that he did not.

Without his stern reprobation, however, I found that the contentment my indulgence usually bestowed had little effect, as if the act of defiance alone had been the spice which had added fire to my habit. His going had denied me even that, and with the greatest satisfaction I gave into my resentment and sought escape a second time in as many hours.

Little did I know how easily it could have been my last.

* * *

_To be continued._

_Reviews appreciated very much and always welcome!_


	2. Chapter Two

_A/N: Canon chronology is somewhat erratic to say the least. Most authorities place GREE before SIGN in 1888, which is how I have interpreted it, hence the allusion here._

* * *

_**The Case of the Reluctant Tenant**_

**Chapter Two**

I have vague memories of time passing, of voices and faces. I was Orpheus, descending into the underworld and losing my way. Consumed by fire, I burned as though I was little more than kindling before the hungry flames. The forces of Hades overwhelmed me, marching across my body with a thousand tiny feet, each felt like pinpricks against my skin. I fought them, in vain trying to be rid of them, tearing one away to be replaced by ten more.

In an alien world I ran, a torn and bleeding creature, pursued by demons until into the River Styx I fell and the tears of the lost and grieving washed over my head and pulled me down into merciful oblivion.

Such is the stuff of nightmares. Such was the price of my own folly.

Eventually, the river did give up its prize and I awoke. I was in my bed, and my nightshirt and the sheets, clammy and cold to the touch, told of the sweaty physical manifestation of my self-induced terrors. Bandages were wrapped around my forearms, under which ran long red cuts where my nails had racked at my flesh. My head throbbed, my chest hurt and my hands were trembling. I was weak and consumed by a foreboding sense of disquiet.

I lay there, having no sense of time, knowing only that it was day. Somewhere from beyond my bedroom door came the soft chink of china. Someone was out there, the person who had placed me in my bed and tended my injuries. That someone would be waiting for my wakefulness, some sign that their vigil was at an end. It was the least I could do to oblige.

Putting thoughts into action proved slightly more difficult than I had expected. My legs were unsteady and somewhere along the way I seem to have lost that vital connection with my hands that would have made taking up my dressing gown all the easier. I persisted with my struggle and dragged the garment about me until I was respectable enough to put in an appearance and then through the door I went.

Of all the people I might have expected, Mycroft was not one of them. He was sat at the table, a cup in one hand, and the paper spread out before him. His appraisal of my person was fleeting and calculated in its indifference, and his attention soon turned back to his perusal of that day's news.

"So, you are alive then," said he. "Though to look at you, one does wonder."

"Mycroft, what are you doing here?"

It was unnecessary to ask, since I had already noticed a crumpled blanket, suggesting he had passed an uncomfortable night on the sofa. I was interested, however, in what had brought him here in the first place.

He raised his cup in a gesture of mock salutation. "Taking lunch, my dear boy. Mrs Hudson is most hospitable."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Oh, I think it does adequately well. Since I have forced to stay here, the least I can expect is to be fed. Won't you join me?"

I shook my head and was rewarded for my obstinacy by a fierce pounding against the inside of my skull. My nerves were too rattled for food, so instead I sought a cigarette and wasted several matches because of trembling hands before managing to light it.

I was keenly aware of his critical gaze upon my back and turned round to confirm my suspicions. He had that air of brotherly censure that had always brought out the worst in me.

"You disapprove?" said I, obstinately.

"Would you care?"

"No."

"Well, then, this is a pointless avenue of discussion. I would say that despite your recent behaviour you have at least one friend who does."

I let a blue curl of smoke escape my lips and wished fervently for the return of mental equilibrium. "I know of no such person."

"Then you are a fool in every respect of the word."

His hand went to his inner pocket from where he extracted a folded telegram.

"I received this yesterday evening from Dr Watson."

He held it out to me, defying me not to take it. I was still intrigued as to what could have so disrupted his habits of a lifetime and accepted this offering.

There was selflessness enough in those few lines to wake the baleful spirit of reproach within me. It spoke of a train journey broken to send this wire, of consideration that I did not deserve, of the genuine concern of a friend whom I had treated abysmally.

"Are you quite satisfied now?" said Mycroft.

"This was unnecessary," said I, tossing the telegram onto a nearby chair.

"Yes, that was my thought too and I was quite of a mind to leave you to your own devices. If a man chooses to sulk, then surely he is permitted to do so in the privacy of his own home."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because I am not so mulish as my younger sibling. When I receive an earnest entreaty from a fellow with more common sense than the whole of our family put together, I tend to take it seriously. I now see that the good Doctor's concerns were not unfounded. You were quite insensible when I found you."

Since I could remember precious little of the previous afternoon and evening, I was not in a position to argue. Nor did I feel particularly alert and up to the rigours of challenging Mycroft in disputatious mood.

"Upon my word," he went on, warming to his subject, "never have I seen such an outrageous display of infantile behaviour, Sherlock. I do declare that you are quite worse than the child who persists in throwing his toys from the pram – a nuisance and worry to all around you. Although I should imagine that suits your temperament well enough."

"What do you mean by that?" said I irritably.

He waggled a podgy finger at me. "Do not deny it. Who was it said that 'the child is the father of the man'? Wordsworth, I fancy. No matter. It's true enough whether spoken by poet or prophet. You have not changed one jot since the age of six."

"Mycroft, you are rambling."

"Then tell me you do not remember that French boy with whom you used to be friends," said he, rising from the table to join me by the fire.

"Guillaume?"

"Yes, that's the fellow. What did you do when he told you his family was returning to Paris? Straight out you went to find the tallest tree, which you climbed and promptly fell from. You were extremely fortunate it was only your collar bone that was broken and not your neck. As I say, a most vexatious child you were. I'll allow that you were tolerable once you started school and that was only because our paths never crossed."

"I seem to remember that when they did, you frequently boxed my ears."

Mycroft nodded. "The least you deserved. I'm only sorry to see that it did not knock some sense into you."

"And what am I to deduce from this analysis of my childhood?"

"You suffer from rank conceit of the worst kind, Sherlock. You are not the sun around which the rest of the world revolves. Reign supreme in your own sphere of influence if you will, but do not presume that it extends to the lives of others. As for these wanton displays of recklessness, let me assure you that they are quite wasted. Guillaume still left, and Dr Watson and his good lady wife I trust are enjoying their time in Edinburgh. Neither, I'm glad to say, took any notice of your petulance."

"Petulance?"

"Call it what you will," said he, waving an airy hand. "All I know is that it is thoughtless and mighty inconvenient for the rest of us. Instead of attending to my own affairs, I'm here attending to yours."

"I didn't ask for your help."

"You would have preferred that I had left you to perish on the floor?"

"It would not have come to that. I merely sought to –"

"Manipulate the situation to your own advantage?" he interjected.

"Certainly not."

"Good, because it will not work. I have already wired your friend to set his mind at rest that you are quite well and your off-hand manner of late is due entirely to a most taxing case in which you are involved."

"When quite the opposite is true in fact. I have no cases at present to occupy my mind."

"That may be so, but I did not want him coming back here to further swell that self-important nature of yours. That would have made you quite unbearable."

Mycroft had helped himself to a brandy from the side as he had been speaking and he took his time to enjoy it and my simmering frustration before continuing.

"For myself, I am of the opinion that the distance will do you both the world of good. A break, as they say, is as good as change. You were becoming much too intense, Sherlock. I noticed it during that business with Mr Melas. If it's sycophancy you want, at least have the decency to pay for it like everybody else and not to abuse the goodwill of honest friends."

This lecture into my failings was starting to pall. "It was never like that. I never knowingly abused our friendship."

Mycroft raised a knowing eyebrow. "Except when it suited you? Well, brother mine, now you are bereft, what do you intend to do with yourself?"

In all honesty, I did not have an adequate answer and had to admit to my present lack of purpose.

"What you will not do is remain here. You are becoming positively maudlin. And as for this other foolishness of last night…" He shook his head. "You have had an extremely fortunate escape."

"It was nothing of the kind. Do not exaggerate, Mycroft."

His hesitation was enough to force my gaze back to his face to see the earnestness of his expression.

"If you're at all interested, Sherlock, according to the physician who I was compelled to send for, it appears that he has attended several such cases recently. Something about the solution being more concentrated than usual, I wasn't really listening."

The implication of that was startling. "Deliberately?" I asked.

He shrugged. "He could not say. Knowing the nature of your business makes it at least a possibility. Perhaps you should consider a change of habits. Or," said he pointedly, "giving it up all together."

I scowled back at him. "Now you sound like Watson."

"Well, it seems to me you have him to thank for plucking you from the embrace of death. Apparently, someone had taken the precaution of watering down those infernal preparations of yours. You were spared a fatal dose."

"Watson again," I said with a sigh. "I should have known. He's always doing it."

I checked myself, realising his absence would spare me that bittersweet annoyance in the future.

"But no longer," I added. "I shall have to exercise greater caution now I do not have my watchdog to bay and yap when the mood takes me."

I had affected a cavalier manner about the thing, but I knew I had betrayed myself when I noticed the subtle change in Mycroft's expression.

"My, my, you are going to miss that fellow," he observed, not unkindly.

Since he already knew, there seemed little point in denying it.

"Like a strand stolen from my soul," I replied, somewhat mutedly. "I have perhaps come to rely on his assistance more than was wise."

He took a moment to consider this statement in his usual inscrutable manner and proceeded by laying a brotherly hand on my shoulder in consolation.

"What you need," said he, "is work and mental stimulation. Now, it just so happens that a fellow will be calling round in, oh, about three-quarters of an hour. Do you think you can rouse yourself for that? And do try to make the effort to look a little presentable, won't you? Slovenliness never inspires confidence."

He took up his coat and scarf from the side and made for the door.

"Now, I have to go. I can't keep the Home Secretary waiting all day. Thank Mrs Hudson for a most splendid lunch." He paused in the doorway. "For what it's worth, I think you misjudge the fellow. He will be back, more's the pity. If you had an ounce of compassion, you would make it a clean break and let him and the charming Mrs Watson get on with their new life. No doubt, however, you'll do as you see fit. Good day to you, Sherlock."

And with that, he was gone, leaving me with plenty to dwell on and very little time to prepare for my visitor.

* * *

_To Be Continued._

_I'm always interested to know what people think – so please, if you've a comment to make, leave a review. Thanks!_


	3. Chapter Three

_**The Case of the Reluctant Tenant**_

**Chapter Three**

There is a distinct difference between absence and simple lack of presence. The latter may occur many times without the subject registering any palpable sense of loss. A return home to an empty house may be a passing inconvenience or temporary cause for concern until the situation is rectified by the appearance of the missing individual.

Absence, however, infers a more permanent state. This was the situation in which I now found myself, faced with a client, in the knowledge that I had no good reason for delay, since there would only ever be the two of us in this business. If notes needed to be made, then I would have to make them. If I needed to talk my theories out loud, then I would have to risk the accusation of lunacy and talk to myself.

In short, for the first time in what seemed a long time, I was facing with the task of tackling this case alone.

Looked at from a remote viewpoint, my dilemma was absurd. I have handled many cases on my own, both before and after Watson's appearance on the scene. I am perfectly capable of conducting an investigation on my own and many times have preferred to do so even when I knew I could rely on my companion. My independence is something I value and deeply protect, at no little cost to myself and much to the speculation of others.

In such a vein, I could have happily continued, until one fateful day – the 4th of March, to be precise – I erred, and for the life of me I cannot recall why.

At the time, it seemed the most natural thing in the world. Watson had been impressed by what to me was nothing more than the merest of trifles, and I fancy that I was somewhat warmed by his interest. If I am to allow Mycroft's insights into my character, then he would have it that I basked in the glow of this adulation and sought to bolster it further by taking for myself an ever-fawning companion.

Granted, I share that weakness with the rest of the population for being susceptible to flattery, an indulgence that Watson himself has noted in several of the cases he has been kind enough to publish. I am not blinded by such exaltation, however – 'the food of fools', as Jonathan Swift rightly dubbed it – nor do I actively seek it. I would never insult Watson by casting him in such a light and I strongly deny that that was ever my intention. In that respect, Mycroft is most certainly in error.

And yet, the question remains and I have no answer for it, except that from an act of what should have been of so little importance began something which now brings me infinite pain when I see that I must acknowledge its ending. No good deed, as they say, goes unpunished, and if the sense of loss I felt now was anything to judge by, then I was certainly in purgatory.

Life, however, must go on, and for Mr Ebenezer Turner, the be-whiskered gentleman currently sat on my sofa, awaiting my convenience, a crisis point had been reached in his. To my eyes, he was ordinary enough, but since Watson has always insisted on a detailed description in such matters, I can do no better than to emulate the excellent example set before me and try to do some justice to the gentleman.

Mr Turner, therefore, was stout, balding and of a phlegmatic constitution. His clothes were respectable enough, but made of poor quality material, suggesting that he affected the lifestyle of the well-to-do if on a more limited budget. He was a bachelor, as his ringless and unmarked fingers showed, though there was at least one woman in his life, since his collar was heavily starched and his handkerchief clean and presentable, leading me to deduce that this invisible female was in all probability his mother.

The more remarkable thing to me, however, was that I failed to miss the inference of the plaster dust on his highly-polished if worn and scuffed boots, which would have instantly given me the complete picture of his occupation. I had marked him down as a bookmaker and had to stifle my shock when he had the temerity to refute my observation.

"No, Mr Holmes, I'm a landlord," he explained. "I've a few nice houses about these parts, which I let and get a decent living, and it's on account of that why I'm here, sir."

To read the stories of my chronicler, one would imagine that I am infallible, never setting a foot wrong amidst the clutter of stones on the path of life. That I never claim for myself, knowing the opposite to be true, and like the artists and masons of the medieval world, I purposely allow for flaws in the acknowledgement of the divine perfection of a higher providence.

This error on my part, however, was neither calculated nor realised. It was the sort of elementary blunder the lowest practitioner in the art of deduction would make.

To put it bluntly, it meant that although I had observed, I had failed to make the necessary connections. What to me should have been grasped in an instant had faltered somewhere between eyes and brain. If the truth he spoke – for indeed, he had no reason to lie – then the implication was startling, terrifying almost.

For if I was right, and this was not some temporary fogging of the brain as a result of my recent folly, then it could only point to the onset of mental decay.

It is not an exaggeration to say that this thought sent a chill of dread through me, the like of which I had never known. I could face down the vilest of criminals without a twinge of apprehension, but the decline of my powers filled me with sweat-inducing, rank fear.

Worst of all, I knew the cause was not of Nature's doing. Watson, in railing against my use of the drug to relieve my boredom, had warned me of the possible consequences time and again. 'Count the cost' was his oft-used clarion call. In my misplaced arrogance, I had chosen to ignore him. Yesterday, I had gone so far as to defy him and only by good grace and his foresight was I here today, still suffering the effects of my folly, both temporary and possibly permanent too.

I knew it would give Watson no pleasure when I came to tell him that he had been correct. In the final reckoning the game had not been worth the candle. I had no one to blame but myself.

These thoughts occupied barely a second and I pride myself to some extent that Mr Turner was not privy to the onset of my dark despair. All he was able to observe on my part was a smile in acknowledgement of my error and then my instruction to commence with his tale of woe.

I settled myself into my chair and waited for him to commence. Whatever the extent of my condition, I told myself, this case should reveal my deficiencies in all their grisly glory. I did my best to push my fears into the darkest recesses of my mind and tried to concentrate on what he had to say.

"Well, sir, it's like this," Mr Turner began, somewhat reticently. "I've recently acquired the leasehold of a house in Berkeley Square. It's a good prospect, in need of some little refurbishment, but I have hopes that the rooms will generate a goodly rent, more so than I am able to charge at the present time."

"So far, so good," I noted.

"There's just one problem with the place. Well, it came already with a group of tenants, some of whom were of long-standing. The previous leaseholder sold up to me on the understanding that his tenants would be treated fairly, and on that basis the deal was struck."

He hesitated and seemed not to know how to proceed.

"Pray, do continue," I urged him. "I take it there was some problem with this arrangement?"

"Yes, indeed, Mr Holmes. Well, I took possession and gave the tenants fair notice. A month, you understand, when others would have given a week, time enough for them to make other arrangements."

"Very commendable, Mr Turner."

"Well, I'm a man of conscience, you see, sir, and have always followed that dictum that one must treat others as one would like to be treated. Accordingly, when the month was up, the tenants left and on good terms. All, I should say, but one."

Something about his tone piqued my interest in what seemed to be an otherwise very ordinary set of circumstances.

"Most intriguing," said I. "Do tell me more."

"Her name is Mrs Alice Love, sir. She's a widow of about sixty, who has rooms on the top floor, where most of the work will have to be done. I gave her notice like all the others, but she simply refuses to leave."

I had hoped for so much more, but Mr Turner's story had once more reverted to the mundane. The answer to his problem seemed so simple that I had to wonder why he had not thought of it himself.

"Why not have her forcibly evicted? You are well within your rights."

"That I could, sir," said he, "but it would not sit well with me. I had a good upbringing and was taught to respect my elders. All the same, business is business, Mr Holmes. I need that house empty so the builders can move in and start with the renovations. If you would look into this problem for me, I'd make it worth your while."

I have to admit to feeling vaguely insulted by this proposition. I too have certain principles in such matters, which do not take kindly to the notion that they needs must be subverted to allow the financial aggrandisement of my clients to ride roughshod over elderly ladies.

However, by the same token, here was clearly a mystery as to why the aged Mrs Love should choose to live on in a house that by all accounts was falling down around her ears. Rented rooms in Berkeley Square were by no means cheap and I imagined that her current expenditure could easily be put to better use in more affable lodgings.

"What measures have you already taken?" I asked.

"I've been to see the lady," said Mr Turner, "on several occasions now. She was adamant that she would not move out, so I had to try another tack."

Again came his hesitation, this time accompanied by a fierce rush of blood to his cheeks.

"It pains me to say it, Mr Holmes, but I increased her rent, fourfold, in an attempt to make her see sense. Still she would not go. So, several days ago, I prevented the grocer's boy from gaining access to the property to stop him taking her food."

He must have seen my disapproval for he was quick this time to continue.

"As I say, it does not give me any satisfaction to have to resort to such measures. I would much prefer her to go of her own free will. But what am I to do? She refuses to leave. You must see my difficult position, Mr Holmes."

I have to say that at that point my sympathy extended more in the direction of the unfortunate Mrs Love. Far from aiding this ambitious man of property, it seemed to me that I had a duty to the lady to ease her suffering before her obstinacy resulted in a slow and miserable death by starvation.

"I do understand, Mr Turner," I said at length. "My only wonder is why you have brought this case to me? Surely there are a number of detectives who could settle this matter for you."

"Ah, but you were recommended to me, Mr Holmes, as being one who helps people in unusual circumstances. And this, if I may be so bold, sir, is unusual enough, I'll wager. I've had dealings with many tenants, but I've never come across this before."

"And the name of this person who sings my praises so highly?"

Mr Turner shifted uneasily in his seat. "He did say I wasn't to tell you, sir."

"Then let me guess. It was Mr Mycroft Holmes. Ah, thank you, Mr Turner, I see that I am right."

"Yes, you are, sir," said he reluctantly. "A friend of a friend told him of my problem and he told me to see you."

Clearly, if Mycroft had sent him, then the case would prove to be a little out of the ordinary. I thought I had sensed his overly-heavy brotherly hand in this affair and it was gratifying, and more than a little reassuring in view of my earlier mistake, to be proved correct.

"Very well, Mr Turner, I will look into the problem of your tenant," said I, rising to my feet to draw our interview to a close. "If there is some particular reason for Mrs Love's reluctance to leave, then I have hopes it may be resolved. If it is some sentimental attachment, however, I fear you may have to resort to more forcible measures."

Mr Turner beamed, extending his hand with gratitude. "Oh, thank you very much, sir. I'm sure you'll do your very best. Though if it comes to having her evicted, then at least I can salve my conscience with the knowledge that I tried everything I could."

"Even coming to me," I added, sardonically.

"Even that. Well, good day, Mr Holmes. At least I can go home with a clear conscience."

As the door banged shut behind him, I was left to reflect on the fickleness of the human condition that balked at having an elderly woman dragged from her home but not at the prospect of seeing her starve to death. Barely had the client left the room than the business was already leaving me with an unpleasant aftertaste in my mouth.

Despite this, however, it did present me with something other than my mental concerns and loneliness to fill my day and, since Mycroft had gone to the trouble sending this affair my way, the least I could do was to oblige.

Thus, without delay, I gathered up my things and set out for Berkeley Square.

* * *

_Continued in next chapter._

_As ever, reviews are greatly appreciated and always welcome._


	4. Chapter Four

_**The Case of the Reluctant Tenant**_

**Chapter Four**

I shall never agree with those who claim that familiarity breeds contempt. If it does, then it is a reflection upon the individual, not of the condition in general.

To my mind, there is something reassuring about the familiar, something to be valued. Like walking well-remembered London streets beneath a slate grey sky, knowing each and every turn of the road, and avoiding the cracked paving slabs where the rain collects and waits for the unwary. There are those who say that mountains are majestic – and I dare say they have a valid point – but give me the city on a dreary day with its rumbling skies and glistening pavements, and I am simply in my element.

Familiar territory perhaps, but these were unfamiliar times.

Many were the days when I have marched forth from Baker Street to pursue my own inquiries, content in my own company and glad of it. In that respect, today was no different. Where the difference lay, however, was in the certain knowledge that for the first time in some years I was quite emphatically setting out alone.

In many ways, the change was quite disturbing. The old saying is true to some extent, that one never really appreciates what one has until it is lost forever.

In my case, I had never realised how much I had come to rely my absent companion until now.

It had started with small things. Twice I left the house that afternoon, and twice I had cause to return, the first time for my gloves, the second for my keys, a fact that little impressed Mrs Hudson as I had already disturbed her barely two minutes before.

Normally, I am not forgetful, at least not where the fine details of an investigation are concerned. In other respects, perhaps I am not as attentive as I should be.

Looking back, however, I am reminded of the many times when I was without money and turned to Watson for change; of all the times I heard his voice behind me telling me to take my scarf; of times of the day when my enthusiasm for a case would make me neglectful of taking either food or drink.

Clearly, in some respects, my fellow lodger had made himself indispensable. If so, then the days of adjustment ahead promised to be most trying both for myself and Mrs Hudson's patience.

It had occurred to me that this sudden inconvenient lack of memory was yet another symptom of my folly the night before. I was eternally glad that fresh air and the stiff walk to Berkeley Square soon dispelled that theory, for I was soon aware of the lifting of the fog that lingered in the recesses of my mind and with it came the welcome return of my sense of equilibrium.

Like a thirsty man eager to sate his thirst, I was soon casting about for suitable candidates on which to try my restored powers. I must have offered some small amusement to the citizens of London that day, pounced upon as they were by a seemingly deranged fellow, eager to tell them their trade and occupation. From the elderly commissionaire to the chipper costermonger, the answers came to me as accurately and rapidly as they had ever done.

I could derive some comfort from the knowledge that my folly had not cost me my mind; in other regards, I had yet to say.

Thus it was that I eventually found myself outside the house of Mr Ebenezer Turner in the grey evening light, staring up at a dim glow from an upstairs window, the only sign of habitation in the building. Outside, several roughs loitered on the steps, no doubt on Mr Turner's instruction to send any potential assistance to Mrs Alice Love on its way.

Observing from a distance, it did not escape me how complete was her isolation. Like an embattled damsel in a castle tall, she remained distant from the world, very much alone in a city of millions. Whether she lived or died, it would matter to very few, save perhaps Mr Turner, currently thwarted in his plans for redevelopment.

Nor could I entirely avoid drawing the obvious parallels with my own situation. Here I stood, in the unrelenting rain, very much alone in a crowd that passed me by and muttered in annoyance at my obstructing their passage along the pavement. Kindred spirits, it seemed, are found in the unlikeliest of places.

Assistance too, for in the midst of my darker thoughts, I was aware that I had been joined in my observations of the house by a portly, middle-aged man with an umbrella and a leather case, which he clutched tightly under his arm to protect it from the downpour.

"She's still up there then?" said he, nodding to the lighted window. "I understand the house has been sold and the new owner wants her out."

"So I've heard," I replied.

The man chuckled. "She won't leave willingly, I'll wager. Good luck to her, I say."

I must admit to being somewhat wrong-footed by this turn of events. Generally speaking, one does not strike up a conversation about the fate of elderly ladies with soaking wet strangers on a cold, rainy evening in central London, on the grounds that it might be misconstrued as eccentricity in the extreme. However, the gentleman seemed sane enough, if his investment in a decent umbrella was enough to provide one with a sound judgement of his character, and so naturally my interest became somewhat piqued.

"I used to lodge in the rooms opposite hers in my bachelor days," he explained affably. "Funny old girl, she was. Never went out much. Church on Sundays and that was it."

"You never spoke much then?"

"Well, she used to ask me to get her the odd thing and it was no great hardship to me, so I was glad to help out."

He gave me a measured look.

"You have some interest in the house, sir?" he asked.

"In the lady," I said. "It seems to me that she may be in need of some assistance."

His gaze travelled to the loungers at the door.

"Nasty looking brutes. They've been there a few days. Only yesterday I saw them turning away the grocer's boy. I wondered then if she was in any sort of trouble."

It occurred to me to suggest that some small intervention on his part would not have gone amiss when he had witnessed this unkind deed. To be aware of an injustice and not to act has always been an anathema to my soul. I could almost hear my absence voice of reason telling me that not all men are as like-minded as me, and so gritted my teeth and held my tongue in the matter.

"Do you know of any reason why she would be reluctant to leave?" I asked him.

"Not I," he replied. "In all honesty, I was heartily glad to move out myself. At the time, money was tight and the rooms were cheap. For a good reason as it turned out! Many's the night I went to sleep with a pail clasped in my hands to stop the rain wetting the bed."

"Perhaps her rooms were better than yours," I ventured.

He gave a snort of laughter. "That I sincerely doubt. The place was tumbledown even back then."

"Oh, you saw the rest of the rooms?"

"Not hers. She used to come knocking when she needed something and then her door was always pulled to. If you ask me," he added confidentially, "she was a bit odd in the head, if you get my meaning. Someone told me it was the death of her husband that did it."

"He died in the house?" I asked, wondering if this gentleman had unintentionally hit upon the answer to the mystery. If so, and it was as I feared a sentimental attachment, then I could well envisage those same roughs being used to haul Mrs Love out onto the streets very shortly. Nothing else was likely in such circumstances to force her departure.

However, my assumption proved too hasty.

"No, I believe he died in a mining accident up north somewhere. He was a foreman or some such fellow, so I was told. After that, his widow moved down to London and here she is still."

"Had she family in the south? Was that her reason for moving here?"

"Not that I ever saw. Kept herself very much to herself. Tell you what though, she always paid her rent dead on nine o'clock every Monday morning, regular as clockwork. You could set your watch by her. Well," said he, "I must be going, Mr?"

"Mr Sherlock Holmes."

"Good heavens!" he cried. "Mr Henry Bagshott at your service. Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir!"

He pulled off his glove and offered me his hand. The smudges of ink on his fingers told of an occupation connected with the print industry, though the indented corn on his middle right-hand finger was against him being a typesetter.

"No doubt I will read an account of our meeting in tomorrow's _Telegraph_," said I dryly. "And pray do remind your colleagues that my surname should be properly spelt with an 'L'. Several times in the past has your paper been careless in that respect."

His lower jaw fell open. "Well, I never! How did you know I was a journalist?"

A brief explanation sufficed, although I omitted my observation that his attire was not of the quality usually to be found in the offices of the society papers, but rather more in keeping with the popular press.

"That, and my observation that you carry in your case the late edition of the newspaper, which has yet to go into public circulation and so could only have been obtained from their offices, led me to the obvious conclusion."

Naturally, he was suitably impressed, the equal of my own relief that this was becoming easier than ever with each application of my mind. With a cheery farewell and an assurance to correct the typographical errors associated with my name, he departed and was soon swallowed up in the milling throng.

As it was, our meeting had been fortuitous and instructive. Sentimentality as a reason seemed to be dwindling in favour either of the insanity of the woman or some criminal intent on her part. I was tending towards the latter, however improbable it appeared. Her punctiliousness in payment and general reluctance to allow even a chance view into her private domain suggested that the rooms contained something of great or incriminating value. In either case, the only way to prove my theories was to gain admittance and see for myself.

Putting that thought into action, however, was easier said than done. If I have teased Watson in the past that dealings with the fair sex was his department, then it was not entirely unkind or untrue. Elderly ladies with formidable attachments to shabby dwellings were likely to be more receptive to a kindly-faced doctor than a steely-eyed consulting detective.

Fortune seemed to be smiling favourably on me that evening, for whilst I stood in the grip of indecision, a small lad with a bundle under his arm crossed to the other side of the road in front of me and strode purposefully up to the house.

This I took to be the grocer's boy on his rounds and my suspicion was confirmed when at the sight of him, the loungers were galvanised into action, placing themselves in a human wall between him and the door. To his credit, he tried his luck at getting past them and thrice was thrust back, the last time falling into a puddle.

With their laughter ringing in his ears, he made his retreat, whereupon I crossed over and addressed him.

"You have a delivery for Mrs Alice Love?" I asked.

"That's right, sir," said he. "Here's her groceries. Only I can't get 'em to her, because of that mob at the door. Several days I've been trying and they're always there."

"I'll take them to her," said I, holding out my hand.

"It'll cost you," said he, stubbornly clinging to his parcel. "Mrs Love always pays on delivery."

He named his price and, as luck would have it, I had enough on me to cover the charge. Relieved of his burden, the lad scampered away. I had acquired the means of admittance; now I faced the problem of attaining it.

Any thoughts I had of having to fight my way inside came to nothing. The gang eyed me warily at my approach and once more formed their formidable barricade to prevent my access. My name meant nothing; the mention of Mr Turner, however, changed their manner completely.

"Sorry 'bout that, gov'ner," said one. "We were under strict instructions to stop the lad getting any food to her in there. But since Mr Turner sent you, I s'pose it's all right."

With my path thus cleared, I wasted no time in entering the house lest these villains change their minds. Inside was darkness, enlivened only by the glow of the gas lamps through the fanlight. From what little I could see, I noted that Mr Turner had not been inaccurate about the condition of the building.

Paper hung in strips from the walls, mottled with irregular blotches of grey-green damp patches, which gave the air that peculiar smell of mustiness and mushrooms. The paintwork was peeling and worn, clinging to what few uprights remained on the banisters by the frailest of filaments. At the sound of the creaking boards as I ascended the stairs, I heard the scurrying of many tiny rodent feet.

Mrs Love's rooms were located in the garret, with what little space there was divided between two the tenants. A thin sliver of yellow light showed beneath a door, leaving me in no doubt of her location.

Accordingly, I knocked and a thin, quavering voice answered.

"I have brought your groceries, madam," I replied.

"Leave them by the door," came the reply. "You'll find the money in the usual place."

The usual place turned out to be beneath the remains of a chamber pot to the left of the door. A few poor pennies wrapped in paper, just enough to provide for the bare necessities of body and soul, nestled under the broken pieces of china. As the sum of a person's existence, it did not speak of much hope for the lady who had left them or for the charity of the individual who would happily take them from her.

Sympathy is not generally an emotion in which I allow myself to indulge, but if ever a soul was in need of such consideration, then undoubtedly it was Mrs Love. It only served to bring home to me how wretched was the state of those deprived of the concern of a friend.

A crack of light appeared as the door opened a fraction and a frail hand emerged to grope for the parcel I had left. Finding the object for which it searched, the hand began to retreat. The door would have been shut again had I not put my foot in the gap and prevented its closure.

A wail rose up from behind the door, upon which a pathetic attempt at pressure was applied to try to be rid of my intrusion.

"Mrs Love," said I. "I must speak to you."

"Leave me alone," came a feeble voice. "Please, leave me be."

Her distress was absolute and my determination equally so. I could have easily pushed her back from the door, but another means immediately suggested itself to me and showed me a kinder way to gain admittance.

"Mrs Love, I knew your husband."

It could not have worked better had it been some magical incantation. The pressure on the door was released and it opened to reveal a malnourished white-haired lady, who peered up at me in surprise and delight.

"You knew my Alfred?" said she.

I nodded.

The door opened fully and she bade me enter. I accepted the invitation and found myself in a sitting room as pitiable as its occupant. The walls were streaked with green from the leaking ceiling, which was gathering large globules of water on its surface as the rain continued to fall outside. What furniture there was would have been considered shabby twenty years previously; now it was barely standing.

All the same, I saw the attempts she had made to make this hovel a home. Neat curtains at the windows, pictures on the walls, a lace tablecloth that had expensive when bought new on which was an old Worcester tea service. Through the ajar bedroom door could be glimpsed a faded silk bedspread, lovingly embroidered with birds and flowers. Mrs Love herself was attired in hopelessly old-fashioned but respectable dark blue dress, topped by a lace cap which struggled to contain her wiry hair.

"Won't you take a seat, sir?" said she, gesturing to a chair at the table. "I believe the boy should have brought some tea in this parcel, although I'm not sure if I have any milk."

"Please, madam," said I. "Don't trouble yourself on my account."

From the thinness of the lady and the sunken flesh of her face, it was evident she needed all the nourishment she could get. I would have felt most uncomfortable taking the food from her mouth, but she seemed not to have heard my remark.

"He's a good lad, but he always forgets the milk," she went on unconcernedly. "I used to ask my neighbour to get me some, but he's gone."

"So I noticed. You appear to be here on your own."

She offered me a wan smile. "I don't mind so much. It suits us."

"Us?" I queried.

"Alfred and myself. The quiet is good for him. That's why I can't leave, you see."

The saddest thing of all was that I did see. Whatever theories I had formed had been blown to dust the moment I had entered her rooms. Nothing more sinister than grief held her here, coupled with some fancy that the spirit of her dead husband lingered at her side.

"Mrs Love, I'm afraid you will have to leave eventually," said I. "Mr Turner is well within his rights to have you evicted."

Her face creased into a smile. "He has been so kind to me, that poor man. Always so apologetic when he had to ask for an increase in rent."

This meek gratitude and understanding was almost too pathetic to be true. What anger it gave rise to within me was beyond description.

"But it is bearable," she went on. "I have a small income, you understand, although the interest does not go as far as once it did. Everything seems so expensive these days."

She gave a small shake of her head, as though the business was of immense distaste to her, and then her gaze came back to mine.

"You said you knew my Alfred?"

"Yes," I lied. "I was sorry to hear of his passing."

"Oh, my dear sir," said she. "You were misinformed."

"I understood there was an accident."

"Yes, indeed. A terrible thing it was too. A mine shaft collapsed and several men perished. My Alfred went down and saved the lives of five others."

"Most courageous."

"He was a hero that day," Mrs Love went on, pride beaming from her countenance. "Everyone said so, especially as he was most grievously injured himself. He still is not fully recovered, but his health improves a little more every day. Would you like to see him? I'm sure he would be glad of the company."

She gestured for me to follow and led the way into the small bedroom. In all honesty, I had no firm inkling of what I might find therein. A likeness perhaps, a suit of clothes or possessions preserved as their owner had left them.

What I found, however, was the withered and skeletal corpse of the late Mr Alfred Love.

* * *

_Continued in next chapter._

_As ever, reviews are greatly appreciated and always welcome._


	5. Chapter Five

_**The Case of the Reluctant Tenant**_

**Chapter Five**

I take no pride in relating my part in the events in that followed. We are behoved to take pity on those less fortunate and not to revel in their wretchedness, since, to paraphrase John Bradford, there but for the grace of God may go we all.

Many took the opposite view that night, and, as word spread, crowds gathered to watch and jeer as Mrs Love was dragged screaming and crying from her home into a waiting wagon. Her departure to an institution was thus met not with sympathy and understanding, but with hoots and cheers.

The press followed this popular line in printing lurid details of the affair in the next morning's papers and roundly condemned her as 'The Mad Woman of Berkeley Square'. Much was made of the state of the late Mr Love, now conveyed to a decent place of burial, and the picture painted was calculated to stir horror and revulsion in the readers at the woman who had perpetrated such a deed.

As someone who had seen the corpse, I was more disgusted at the unnecessary pillorying of a woman who had manifestly harmed no one by her actions and who herself was in dire need of help. The milk of human kindness had truly run dry if no one save me could see that.

This reaction was not totally unexpected. Even as Mrs Love had bid me goodbye in all innocence of her situation that evening, adding a fervent wish that I would call again soon, I had been plagued by grave misgivings as to her future.

In the end, I had followed the only sensible course of action available to me and informed the appropriate authorities. I could have walked away and trusted to the not so tender mercies of Mr Turner and his hired thugs. My conscience would not let me escape so easily, and thus I found myself witness to scene that could have been taken straight from the page of a history book, with a crowd baying for the blood of the condemned on the way to execution.

Nor did I take much satisfaction from seeing my name allied with the business in the press. Spurred on by indignation, I set out to discover what the journalists had not – the reason for Mrs Love's behaviour. A few days in North of England gave me a final end to the tale.

Mr Love had been manager at a pit in the Durham area. All spoke of him as an upright, moral gentleman, who had risen far and married well. The couple had not been blessed with children, but had lived comfortably and were much respected. Then, some twenty-two years ago, there had been an explosion underground. At the news that men were still trapped, Mr Love had descended with others to help in the rescue. As Mrs Love had told me, he had been responsible for saving the lives of five miners. What she had neglected to mention was that after sending the last man to safety, he had been overcome by noxious gases and had died.

His body had been recovered, embalmed and taken back to the marital home to lie in state until the funeral. From there, on the appointed day, the coffin had been conveyed to the churchyard and buried with all due reverence. Soon after that, Mrs Love had sold up and left the area for good without telling anyone of her intended destination.

With hindsight, the people who had known her were able to point to signs that all was not well with the lady. One spoke of remembering a large trunk amongst her possessions on the day of her departure and this, it was agreed universally, must have contained the body of her husband. Duly the coffin was exhumed and found to contain stones. Thus began the speculation, although to me the events seemed clear enough.

Some time between his death and the funeral, unable or unwilling to accept the loss of her husband, Mrs Love had formed the notion that he was not dead, that she alone knew the truth while all others were mistaken. In this belief had she removed his body from the coffin, placed in it the stones to give the illusion of weight and after the funeral had smuggled him away to London to avoid the curiosity of the neighbours.

Lost amongst the masses, she had taken cheap rooms and there had tended him, waiting for the day that he was restored to health.

That had been twenty-two years ago. Mrs Love had been waiting for a very long time.

Thus enlightened, I returned to Baker Street that grey afternoon in a not altogether easy frame of mind. The long train journey had made me wistful for the restorative powers of a quiet pipe before my own fire and at the station I had wasted no time in hailing a cab and setting out for home.

No sooner had I opened the door, however, than I realised that my little sanctuary had been invaded. A few steps in, I fairly fell over the several packing cases that stood in the hall and a cursory examination revealed they were neatly stacked with medical books and journals.

Further proof of my fellow lodger's return was evidenced by the sight of a new red tartan rug draped across the banisters, a gift no doubt for Mrs Hudson. Thick and warm, it was just the sort of present she would have appreciated, especially as I knew our landlady had been complaining of the deficiencies in her present rug.

Heading up the stairs, sounds of movement from the floor above left me in no doubt of his return. I deliberately did not call out a greeting. It seemed to me that this removal of possessions had been timed to take place in my absence. Better then that my return should come as a surprise and let the reaction come naturally rather to allow time for an excuse to be prepared.

My entrance into the sitting room was something of a shock. I thought I knew every minutiae of this room, down to the last pen and trace of cigar ash on the hearth rug. Even so, it had not struck me until that moment how many of those familiar things did not belong to me for, in my absence, my former acquaintance had eradicated every trace of his presence with an almost surgical ruthlessness.

Now the bookshelves stood empty, the desk had been stripped of its clutter and the curious collection of bottles and specimens that had been strategically, dare I say, carelessly left on various surfaces had been gathered up. My possessions remained, looking somewhat sad and lost on their own without the accompanying litter generated in the passage of a shared way of life.

I dare not attempt to describe my feelings at this sight, for I shall surely be found wanting. All I can say is that the image of that room is as fresh to my mind today as it was on that afternoon in 1888. It returns to me unbidden and forces me to see again the empty, aching spaces wrought by the merciless force of change. Now at least I am able to look back over the following years and place this event in its proper context; at the time, however, all I could think was to find an excuse to leave with all due haste to escape this depressing spectacle.

My answer came in the pile of correspondence left on the table. A missive from Odessa, asking for my assistance in the Trepoff murder, seemed an excellent diversion and I resolved to leave the country that night in pursuit of the business. The boat train I knew from memory would depart in little under an hour, allowing me time enough to collect the few things I would need for the journey and leave for the station. If I was quick enough, I would not have to face my former acquaintance.

Fate, however, had other ideas. Scarcely had I formulated my plans than the door burst open with the aid of a well-applied boot and Watson appeared, bearing in his arms a bundle of books. I registered the look of surprise on his face, which was quickly tempered by embarrassment before being replaced by a wary smile.

"Holmes, you're back," said he. "I had not expected you."

The first statement was unnecessarily obvious, the second equally so.

"As I see," said I, gesturing to the state of the room. "Well, don't let me stop you, Watson. Please, carry on."

With that, I departed for my bedroom. In my haste, the door did not meet with the catch and it swung back open. As I collected my things and stuffed them into a travelling case, I was aware of a lingering presence on the threshold with the intent to speak.

"Did anything happen while I was away?" he asked when by chance I looked in his direction.

This seemed to be an invitation to engage in pleasantries, although in all honesty I had to summon up the greatest energy for the effort.

"No," I replied. "It has been unusually quiet."

There was a brief pause before he spoke again, in which time I noticed him glance towards my desk and the locked drawer with its contentious contents.

"Mrs Hudson said you'd been ill," said he at last.

I waved the remark aside with an airy hand. "A slight ague. It was nothing."

"She said a doctor was sent for."

"An over-reaction. As you can see, I am quite well."

He mulled over this for a moment, and I could tell that he was treating this statement with a good deal of scepticism.

"My new neighbour – oh, he's a doctor too, by the way – said something about a rash of cocaine poisonings over the past few days. A number of people have died apparently."

I knew what he was driving at, but made no attempt to satisfy this roundabout questioning of his, being in neither the mood or having the time to listen to the inevitable lecture that would follow.

"So I heard," said I ungraciously. "I believe they caught the person responsible."

"Yes, an inept pharmacist."

"Really? Well, I've been away. I have not had time to peruse the papers."

His expression brightened. "On a case, Mrs Hudson told me. Interesting, was it?"

"No," I replied. "It was a most unsavoury and tragic business."

He accepted this information with a thoughtful nod.

"I read in the _Telegraph_ that you'd been involved with that affair at Berkeley Square. Something about a mad woman and her dead husband?"

For my own part, this conversation was starting to pall. I saw little point in extending the agony of pretended interest for either of us.

"A most inaccurate description," said I tersely, slamming shut the case shut. "If Mrs Love was mad, then it was through unresolved grief for a loss she could not and would not accept. In adopting such an erroneous position, she set herself in opposition to the natural order of things – that change cannot be avoided, however distasteful or unwelcome it may be. If we may take anything from this business, it is in our understanding of the nature of loss and our better ability to handle it. A clean break with the past, as I have been told, is always advisable."

I hesitated in this tirade when I saw the expression on his face. It was not what I had expected. Remorse perhaps or some rueful affirmation of my statement, but not that fleeing look of hurt, which was smothered as quickly as it came. So extraordinary was it that for a moment I fancied I had been in error. After all, had he not contrived to gather up his things and slip away like a thief in the night without a word of farewell?

I could only deduce therefore that either I was seeing things or I had entirely misread the situation. If the latter, then I had surely done him a great disservice. Either way, it needed further investigation.

He had left the immediate vicinity of my doorway and returned to his packing. I followed him out, took a cigarette from the box and lit it. I took a moment to savour the tobacco and reflect on how to approach the situation. The most obvious albeit unoriginal ways are invariably the best and thus I fell back on the standard questions.

"How was Edinburgh?" I asked.

"It rained all the time," he replied laconically.

"I'm told that happens a good deal."

"To tell you the truth, I was glad to get back to London, even if the weather seems to have followed me," he said with a nod to the splashes that had laced the glass of window.

"Is Mrs Watson of a like mind in that?" I inquired.

"Very much so. Mary was keen to get things underway at our new home, so we got back this morning to make a start. In matter of fact, there's quite a lot of work to be done."

"More than you had anticipated?"

He nodded ruefully. "Which is why I'm here now to collect my things. I doubt I'll get the chance otherwise."

In my gently probing manner, I had obtained one of my answers. Clearly this had not been as deliberate in its intent to wound as I had thought.

"This is probably all I can take for now," said he, gesturing to the box. "I'll send someone round to dispose of the old desk in the next few days or so."

I followed his gaze to the battered piece of furniture and felt a small tinge of regret squeeze my insides. It did not seem so long ago that he had purchased it from a pawnbroker in Marylebone High Street and together we had carried it home amidst much laughter about the absurdity of our not hiring a wagon. I could remember too all the times I had seen him busily at work with his writing, adding his own ink blotches to the stains left by others on its marked surface.

Suddenly, and most irrationally, I did not want to see it go. Its removal would take with it many happy remembrances and leave another gaping space in a room that seemed already stripped of too many memories.

"You can leave it if you prefer," said I. "Unless you need it."

"No, I've invested in a new one for the surgery. As for this old desk, I'm sure someone will buy it for a few pennies."

To be cast aside for such a paltry sum seemed an ignominious end for such a faithful servant.

"You want it?" Watson said incredulously when I offered to buy it from him.

"It fits that corner nicely," I replied obliquely.

"Well, then, please keep it. No, I don't want your money. I simply thought it was in your way."

"No, Watson, it was never in my way."

He glanced at me with a look of guarded surprise and I hoped he had read in my statement more than a mere reference to the desk.

"Well, as you say," said he. "However, I fancy the new lodger might be appreciative of the space."

"New lodger?" I queried.

"For the room upstairs."

I shook my head. "No, it will stay empty."

"But the rent, Holmes."

"I am quite able to manage," said I. "It is a small price to pay to ensure my continuing peace and solitude. If you wish to leave anything, you are more than welcome. I will see it is not disturbed."

He nodded his thanks as though he had not anticipated such an offer. Placing the last of his books into the box, he stood staring at them in the manner of man with something to say and not the wit to do so.

"Well, I'd best be making a move," said he at last. "Before I do, we were wondering – that is, Mary and I – as this is our first night in the new house, if you would join us for a small celebration meal this evening. I can't promise anything grand or that the place will be in any fit state, but you are more than welcome, Holmes."

I must confess I did not understand this invitation at all. For someone who had chosen to initiate a parting of the ways, to now offer the hand of friendship was either heartless, a defect I could never ascribe to Watson, or some attempt at a show of civility.

Faced with indecision, I chose the safer option.

"I'm afraid I must decline," I replied. "I intend to leave for the Continent on the next train."

"As you wish," said he, shouldering his box and making for the door. "In that case, I shall bid you goodbye."

I saw immediately my mistake. His manner had become unusually brusque and his tone took on an air of finality that I had not noticed before. I had erred, gravely, and caused deep offence in doing so. The offer had been sincere - it seemed I was not alone in wishing for the retention of old ties.

I do not generally indulge in empathy, but I am at least able to gauge a man's intelligence and read a situation as he might. Looked at from Watson's point of view, the situation must appear as though I desired an end to our acquaintance. I had acted throughout with an unbecoming churlishness, petulance as Mycroft would describe it, keeping myself aloof from his marriage, refusing to be his best man and now flatly turning down an invitation to share in the couple's new beginning.

Thus does illumination come eventually to us all, sometimes too late. In my case, I had not yet gone past the point of no return and I was still in a position to right my wrongs.

"Watson, wait," I called after him. "I could take the later train. This business in Odessa has waited this long. No doubt it will keep a little longer."

The smile he returned was one of genuine pleasure. "I'm sure Mary wouldn't mind if we dined a little earlier. Say seven o'clock?"

"I will be there, my dear fellow. I could pick up a hamper from Fortnum and Mason's on the way if it would help with the supply situation."

"Yes, thank you, Holmes," said he. "Most considerate of you."

Ultimately, compromise proved to be the saving grace by which we maintained our friendship. The evening was entirely pleasant, the company familiar and affable, and afterwards I was able to set out with a feeling of the greatest ease. Change is inevitable, but it does not have to be complete. Clean breaks are for stronger mortals than Watson and I. How much more satisfying it is to adjust to the new than to mourn forever for the old.

And adjust we did. Dr and Mrs Watson were ever gracious hosts and their home was always open to me. More often than not, however, I would find Watson at my door, eager to hear of my latest case, and with that keen instinct of his to time his appearances just as I was expecting a client. I trust I did not prey too heavily on his time; on those occasions when he was able to accompany me, I was immensely glad of his presence, and tried not to be too obvious in my disappointment when he was otherwise detained.

This pattern sat well with us, until that day when I took the decision to go away, secure in the knowledge that he had the support of his devoted wife to soften the loss. Wherever I travelled, it was in the knowledge that I was never really alone, that one day the time would present itself when I could step back into my life and recover what I had set aside.

That is not so easily done, however, for while I was gone, a sad bereavement changed our world again. As I had been absent at the beginning, so I was absent at the end. Somehow it seemed fitting. On my return, the habits of old reasserted themselves as we retook our rooms at Baker Street and once again that shabby desk saw service. I knew this happy state could not last, and so I was not totally surprised when he broke the news of his engagement to me.

And this time, when he asked me to be his best man, I accepted.

**The End**

* * *

_**Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson are the creations are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Characters and incidents mentioned in this work are entirely fictitious. This work of fan fiction has not been created for profit nor authorised by any official body.**_


End file.
